


Half In The Shadows

by the49thname



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5925022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the49thname/pseuds/the49thname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those who chase the fleeing shadows of the convicted all face a similar path, one in which they must choose between duty and the irrational beliefs of one’s heart. And you, Cross Marian, knew with certainty that you had chosen Neah Walker over your duty. Cross/Neah, spoiler warnings for post-218 content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half In The Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for a friend who sorely needs more Cross/Neah stuff, and so here I am. I've not written Cross before, so I'm sorry if he's out of character at all. I hope you enjoy reading!!
> 
> Fandom: D Gray Man  
> Pairing: Cross/Neah  
> Song the fic was written to: Beautiful Crime by Tamer

The first time you met Neah your first thought was _yet another little brat who’s gonna get himself killed_. Back then you didn’t have a name, and wherever your master went so did you, tied to his shadow. You remember watching Neah argue with your master and laughing inwardly because how could _this_ person, of all people, be the one everyone was willing to die for. But, then again, when a young man with long dark hair and a gentle smile placed a hand on Neah’s shoulder, and Neah turned to him with blinding loyalty and love in his gaze, you realised that if people did not follow Neah out of devotion, they would follow him out of pity.

And that was when you met Mana, a man doomed to a fate he did not choose. You thought he was weak, far too gentle to survive what was soon going to crash down hard upon his and his brother’s shoulders. You felt pity for them both, and yet - no, it was not quite pity, it was something else… Something you could not name, and as Bookman bid the brothers goodbye and bid you follow him, you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from the receding figures of the Campbell brothers.

The next day Neah punched you so hard your nose was broken. You’d always loved pushing people’s buttons, loved seeing what happened when you said _just_ the right thing to tip the balance, and Neah’s anger was such a glorious site to behold. Eyes black, shaking from anger and fear and all the dark consuming emotions that clawed away at Neah’s sanity, and so you stared back at the man stood over you and wondered how easily Neah would fare when the inevitable happened.

_I wonder, how long do you think Mana has before_ -

The next time you met Neah he bought you a beer - an apology, it seemed - and as you sat under the light of a dying sun he talked about himself, his brother, the Noah. And you? You did not talk about yourself initially, for what was there to say? A young man who had spent his entire life being no-one at all, watching with ink-stained hands as the dead continued to increase in number. But you spoke of the Bookmen nonetheless, of your ageing master and your frustrations - though it took quite a few more beers for _that_ to come out - and of your interest in science and in things that went bump in the night. And as darkness befell the world, you realised you couldn’t make up your mind which side of Neah you preferred.

It took quite a few more meetings for you to realise, rather too late, that you were far too invested in the comings and goings of the Campbell brothers. They never strayed far from your thoughts, always there, always hovering in the back of your mind as you read your sprawling texts and wrote your records and observed from the side lines. You’d always wanted to be in the thick of it all, and you’d naively thought that the Bookmen could give that to you. No, they would sit back and watch the world burn, as they always did, and for a reason you could not name that thought left a bitter taste in your mouth.

The day you became Cross Marian was the last time you saw Bookman before Neah died. You did not say goodbye - the stupid old man had known already, the perceptive bastard - and as you stepped out of the inn you were met with golden eyes and a smile that said _welcome home_. The next few months were spent indulging - scientific experiments, wine, women, _lots_ of women - and you began to create the person that you _wanted_ to become, thus the womanising wine-loving bastard that a certain white haired apprentice grew to love and hate in equal measure was born. You also began to understand what it was that drew you to the Campbells, these two hopeless victims of fate - for Mana, it was the hidden strength he carried, despite all his gentleness, and the love he still managed to carry despite the horrors of the world; for Neah, it was the fire he held inside, the force of will and resolute determination that filled every ounce in his body until you thought he’d burst from it. They seemed far too important to die, you thought, and so you committed yourself to their cause.

And that’s when everything went downhill.

Katerina Campbell died on a beautiful autumn evening, life taken by the very embodiment of Mana’s fear. Mana came back that evening with red-rimmed eyes and horror in his gaze, and neither he nor his brother were ever the same after that. And so they ran, chased by the Noah and the suit that was hell-bent on taking Mana’s free will from him; it was hell, and you stayed with them every step of the way, fighting until your body was left battered and bruised. You’d received your Innocence shortly after dropping your title of Bookman Junior - strange how abandoning one fate left you burdened with another - and soon the smell of gun smoke and heated metal bullets permeated your every waking moment. As Mana drew further and further into despair, Neah drew further and further into hatred. All that bright determination was still there, burning brightly, but now hatred fed that fire in him and it was horrifying to see how prepared Neah was to keep his brother from fading into nothingness. They fought, they killed, and as the 13 drew steadily down to single digits you began to think that you were in too deep. Whenever Neah became exhausted from comforting and protecting Mana he turned to you, strength wavering in a moment of weakness, and the thought that he _relied_ on you was a little too much to bear.

You considered leaving more than once, but you never did. Even now, you don’t know the reason why.

The last time you saw Neah the sky was ablaze with dying sunlight, clouds tinged with the fiery embers of a fading sun. Darkness would soon fall, enveloping the land in its tender embrace of silent twilight. The livelihood of busy city streets would die, dissipating into a transient and almost sorrowful emptiness until the sun rises above nearby hills, giving back the life and warmth that only daylight can bring.

Against a bloodied horizon you walked.

Your hair resembled the sky above, blood-red and flecked with fire. You had walked for many miles, and would walk many more come the break of day, for you chased a shadow that flitted from place-to-place, never settling, always walking.

And as long as there was a shadow to chase you would continue to follow.

The area surrounding you was barren, lifeless. All around could be seen empty grasslands, wind bitten trees bent forward, as if a great weight lay upon their gnarled shoulders. You could see miles into the distance, and be seen just as easily. But being seen was worth the risk, for who would set foot into such a desolate place but the convicted and the condemned. And condemned you were, condemned to a fate you knew would prove the end of you. Those who chase the fleeing shadows of the convicted all face a similar path, one in which they must choose between duty and the irrational beliefs of one’s heart.

And you, Cross Marian, knew with certainty that you had chosen Neah Walker over your duty.

It was this certainty that led you to an abandoned building off the road-side, long since left to rot and fade to dust, led you to force open the door hanging off its hinges, to sit with your back against a damp and mould-infested wall. The house was miserable - there was no evidence of a previous life, no lingering memories of dinners eaten at a kitchen table by candlelight, hushed whispers in silent tranquil twilight.

The livelihood that had once inhabited the place was gone, but for one more night before it met its end it would be filled with the bittersweet memory of lovers saying goodbye.

And so you sat with cigarette smoke for company, gaze lingering on the broken door on its broken hinges. You felt more tired than you had ever remembered feeling, exhaustion seeping itself deeply into your bones until each and every movement pained you. You longed for plush feather beds, the taste of wine and food and the company of anyone other than yourself. But you had chosen this fate for yourself, exchanged one form of duty for another. You smiled in bitter remembrance of your previous life, the life you had left behind the day you decided you would die for the Third Side’s cause, _Neah’s_ cause. You wondered, detachedly, if the old man had finally kicked the can, but memories of Bookman did nothing more than leave you with a feeling you did not want - guilt - and so you swept those traitorous thoughts away, focusing on the present in all its wretched glory.

Every living moment had become pain and exhaustion the moment Neah and Mana ran away from their impending doom. The family members themselves were difficult enough, but it was the _suit_ that made their lives a living hell. It never stopped, it never tired, it was in every shadow and every idle thought. You had endlessly tried to find a way to stop it, poured through all the books and scrolls and texts you knew of, but you knew only one thing for certain - as long as the Millennium Earl existed in this world, so would the suit that became the Earl’s cage. Every time you so much as thought of Mana’s fate you shuddered - the last time you had seen him he was a haggard mess of a man, more skin and bones than human. Neah wasn’t doing much better than his brother, and all the months of fleeing and fighting had taken its toll. The realisation that you could not run forever had sunk itself deeply into all three of you, and in these last moments before the end of all things you felt the heavy weight of fate upon your shoulders.

It was only a matter of time before you had to -

“Cross.”

The dying sun illuminated the back of Neah’s head, a bloodied halo against the dark of his hair, and as he walked with heavy footsteps from the broken doorway and sat beside you with a sigh you did nothing more than put out your cigarette and watch the sun sink below the horizon and fade into nothingness. After a long moment of silence Neah spoke.

“Well, this is a miserable fucking place isn’t it?”

You smiled. “Not my fault you decided to get us lost in the middle of nowhere.”

You stretched as you spoke, wincing as a healing wound on your shoulder twinged painfully, and Neah simply sat and watched the light fade with tiredness in his expression.

“Not my fault we’ve got nowhere else to go.”

Silence, heavy and foreboding, and you could think of nothing that would lighten the mood. You lit another cigarette, inhaling the sweet taste of nicotine and watching the smoke dance its way to the mould-infested ceiling, and tried to ignore the emptiness in Neah’s eyes. When the silence became unbearable you blew out a large cloud of smoke and sighed.

“So I guess this is it then.”

Neah nodded with a grim smile. “Allen’s with Mana right now, he’s…” he paused, swallowing thickly. “He’s not… doing so good.”

You laughed. “Of course he isn’t. If I was in his position I would’ve put a gun to my head and -“

Neah’s expression darkened considerably, and you fell silent - _wrong move, you idiot_ \- putting out your cigarette against the slimy floorboards and lighting another one. Neah’s gaze drifted over to you, trailing from the dried blood on your coat to the dim glow of your cigarette illuminating your features, smoke dancing its way to the ceiling. You glanced over at him and blew smoke into his face, smirking as Neah sputtered and coughed. With an indignant expression he brought a fist down hard on your head and watched with satisfaction as you winced and threw a glare his way. Neah shrugged.

“Hey, don’t give me that look. You know I hate it when you get quiet.”

You blew smoke in his direction once more, irritated, and Neah held his breath and glared vehemently in your direction. As you breathed in then out heavily, smoke billowing before you, Neah slumped against your shoulder, head rising and falling with each breath. You glanced down at him with a frown, worry clawing its way up from deep within and clutching tightly at your heart until you were choking on it, this feeling you had spent so long trying to ignore. But as Neah began to shake you put out your cigarette and wrapped an arm around him, head resting against Neah’s own with a resigned sigh. And so you sat in silence, enshrouded in darkness and burdened by the heavy weight of the world. After a long moment you turned your head, noticing with a smirk that Neah had fallen asleep. You considered elbowing your companion hard in the ribs just to see his face - and anger was far _far_ better than tired apathy - but saw the tiredness etched into his expression, and so you did nothing more than get into a more comfortable position and stare out into the darkness.

Neah awoke many long hours later, still exhausted, still dreading the day that was steadily approaching. He shifted a little, neck aching from the awkward position, and as he turned his head he met your tired gaze and held it, hardly daring to move. You knew this would be the last time you would see Neah like this, calm and quiet and _alive_ , and as a myriad of different emotions danced in Neah’s expression you leant forward and kissed him, gently, more gently than you would have liked - for gentle intimacy was something you lacked, something that did not come naturally and squirmed uncomfortably within your heart - and as he pulled away and rested his forehead against your own he did not complain about the nicotine taste of your lips, he did not comment on the softness in your gaze or the way your hands shook against his shoulder. All he did was stand, hands curled into fists, and as he stood in the broken doorway he turned and before he left, he smiled. He smiled in a way that left your heart twisted into knots.

You did not see him again, not until much later when a boy with a scar on his face gave the exact, same, smile.


End file.
